What a delightful day for a picnic!
The waves of Charbydis lapped against the beach
Helios had not yet set upon the Cliffside
And the song of Sirens played softly over the dune
Scylla laid in wait upon her blanket in the sand
for sailors, the most scrumptious of company,
To pass by her snare
She will reel them in like a fisherman
Entice them into her cavern with her sway
Posing all twelve of her long tall legs for the show and
Nibbling on appetizers of caviar and starfish

Fleets edge up to Beauty’s blanket
But only six men will be served
They would be wined and dined upon
A pound of meat; A bottle of red
“Oh, yes, dears, there is plenty enough to go around
Would you like some more?
You sure are a group of big strong lads.”
The conversation goes on like this
With the choral serenade still lingering in the distance
The calming waves churning along the shore
And Helios preparing for bed
Scylla smiles with all of her teeth
Then she cries
She wines like a babe about ceaseless desire
Here, they cry for her
She brings them close to her lips
They enter her and are consumed by her ways

The feast is done
The lambs were harvested on a bed of kelp
The ox were well seasoned with salt and brine
Beef and poultry and pig and man
All were taken down her gullet
With nary a crumb left for the ants
The men lay strewn about the den
From the ravenous ferocity of their hunger
In spent puddles along her floor
A little of them here
A little there
“Seconds?”
Gracious Host has the nerve to ask
“Dessert?”

Here is a quick story. I will remain as unbiased as I can (try to that is) in the telling of it because the important part (for me) is your reaction to the characters involved. When you are done reading, please give a brief (or lengthy if it moves you) comment telling me what you thought about them. After enough comments I will offer my own response. Thanks. Here it goes:

A man and a woman are dating. The woman tells the man she would like to be a stay-at-home wife until she becomes a stay-at-home mom. She makes it a condition for marriage. He agrees. They marry.

They both have jobs. He makes “alright” money. She makes a decent salary also. Together they are doing well. She loses her job. She tells him it is time to fulfill her marriage condition. She would like to be the stay-at-home wife now.

He tells her they cannot afford it yet. His salary alone will leave a married couple in meager circumstances. She tells him plainly that if he cannot provide for her, then she will leave him. He cannot. She divorces him.

My best friend is getting married. Being my best friend I have the opportunity to be none other than the best man. As the best man you are in charge of arranging the bachelor party, the sendoff of your friend into the new and exciting realm of matrimony. To perform this function correctly one must reflect on the spiritual aspect of the bachelor party, the debauchery, the objectification of women, the wild romp through the night before the union of two lovers. In our current politically correct society we must slough off the reins of morality to a point and carry on like the animals we are. Aside from the base pleasure orientation of the crusade, I propose there is a spiritual underlining to the ritual of the traditional bachelor party.

In the past I have been in four other wedding parties, this one will be the fifth. The very first I was a groomsman to the highschool buddy just graduating college to go off and have a life with a wife, who was also a mutual highschool friend. They hated each other in highschool. He asked her to prom and she declined because one night he dropped in the bushes next to the Sonic. Now, they have two children and a third on the way if it has not got here yet. My second wedding I had a shared best man duty with another guy. There was a bachelor party – sorta. More about this later. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce with affairs and distrust. The third was unmemorable. He was a good friend at the time. We lost contact. I was a simple groomsman that did not attend the night before sendoff. I think they played golf. I have no idea how they are today. The last wedding was my sister’s. Being the minister I took my role seriously and did not participate in the debauchery, which took place in New Orleans on Bourbon street so you can imagine there was some serious debauchery going on. They are still together.

The traditional bachelor party can wax and wane in structure, however, there is one key aspect that needs to be upheld: 1) The women and men must be separated on the night before the wedding. And this goes for ALL women and ALL men. Just because the groom is better friends with this girl he has known forever does not mean that she should come to the bachelor party. If they are really that good of friends the bride should invite her to the bachelorette. And this goes for the brother of the bride as well and that guy she has known forever. The typical modern pre marriage get together is the combination of both groups of bride and groom for one big blowout. That is what the wedding reception is for. Save it for the rehearsal dinner, split the parties on the night before. The bride and groom will be all mushy mushy the whole night and you do not get the chance to have a special moment with your buddy where you tell him how awesome she is and that he is making the right decision right before you send him and the stripper into the private room for a VIP lap dance. At my first bachelor party I watched the groom’s father, the guy who was always viewed as an authority figure through highschool when we were upstairs in his game room carefully trying not to mess the groomed fuzz on his pool table, slipping twenties into g-strings. This was the moment I started feeling like an adult. It passed.

Another bachelor party I attended did the whole strip club thing with one MAJOR exception. The groom was also friends with my girlfriend, who came with me because she was invited. Thanks pal. His marriage failed. Good. Maybe next time you will split the genders, dumbass.

Failed bachelor parties end in failed marriages. I have theories about this. The co-bestman wedding with the bitter divorce had one of those dinner at Chilis night before gatherings with both parties represented. Lame. Halfway through the night, myself and the rest of the groomsmen kidnap the guy out the back door to hit the town. One guy yelled, “Tittie Bar!” and we were off to our destination. None of us really cared to go, but it was traditional so we did. The groom lasted no more than ten minutes in the place before he paid the bouncer fifty bucks to throw him out. A half hour of searching later we figured out what happened. That pussy had already called a cab from the payphone outside to take him back home to his woman. They woke up together on the day of the wedding. If that was not bad luck, what is?

This anecdote brings up a few of my theories as to why that marriage did not work based on the failure of the bachelor party. Having the parties together hints on distrust, whether it is the bride distrusting the groom or the other way around. Distrustful people have either been burned really bad in the past or are not loyal people to begin with. Then there is the issue of distrusting yourself. Putting yourself into a lustful position with a potential and almost certain one night stand situation is a test of your fidelity. If you do not love her enough to resist that casual urge, much less do not trust yourself in that situation, what the hell are you doing marrying? Obviously your wild oats have not been successfully sown.

Then, there is the matter of going home to her and waking up together on the day of your wedding. You are roped. There is no out. Not that you would take it, but it needs to be presented for you to reject it. Get a hotel. Sleep alone. It may be the last chance you will get. A fundamental part of the bachelor party is for the groom to have that soul searching alone time where he accepts his future. Your brain has been so wrapped up in her and the catering and sending out invitations and getting a minister on top of normal life stuff like work and bills and keeping the house clean. You are stressed. You need a wild night of release where you can ask that one fatal question: Is the sacrifice of all of this worth her for the rest of my life? In a drunken stupor you sleep it off and answer yourself in the morning. Then you go get married.

This is what the whole shebang, the ritual of, the purpose for the bachelor party. This one question is what it is all about. The job of the best man is to be the devil, to throw temptation into the face of the groom to be. The rest of the attendees are minor demons assisting in bringing those temptations to the forefront. It is not because we do not want him to marry. Do you really think Satan, sent by God, really wanted Jesus to cross out of his circle of stones instead of dying on the cross? Hell no! He just wanted him to be confident he was doing the right thing.

Tooling around on the social networks that will remain nameless I saw a post onto a friend, the poet / musician Aaron Trumm’s wall (this may be a better link to him) from a guy I knew back in the southmorehouse days, Alex Wukman, another poet that frequented the community. He commented from his mobile on watching Marie Brown, a Houston slam poet, performing at Inprint! , probably for slam nationals, and remarked how great she was. “When Ruby do hair, Ruby do hair right!” I can remember her starting the rhythm. Alex said he almost forgot how good it was. So did I.

southmorehouse was an avante garde art space, sometimes called a venue, sometimes a gallery, sometimes a commune. Overall it was a loose knit community of outsider artists in many genres. As quoted from a lighter bearing the logo that I pocketed one night, it was a “home for the functionally insane.” The best summary of its existence from beginning to end was written by Buffalo Sean’s Art Blog. Sean would know. In the early days he would pass out drunk on the sidewalk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. In the later days he would pass out drunk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. Although the location changed, the outlines remained. After 7 years Sean had spray paint outlines of his body all over the city.

I snooped around Alex’s profile not sure if I should send him a friend request. We knew each other. I remembered him. Self doubt crept in and asked if I really thought he remembered me when I saw a link on his favorite movies, “Southmore House: the Rise and Fall.” Edd McCoy, president of the community in the last of its days and art coordinator for the three years prior, told me of a rumor he heard that this was being created. We both thought it was pretty bold for any movie to be made about the venue without consulting either of us. Now that I saw the title “Rise and Fall” it was downright shocking.

After I got over the elation of somebody actually wanting to make a movie about this piece of time that played a major part in my life, I began to notice discrepancies that unsettled me. The first was the separation of “southmore” and “house.” The second was that they capitalized it. Not being much for capitals I tried my hardest to make the lower case clear to the people who made the flyers, but they were making flyers so i was happy enough about that. One thing that did come across eventually was the lack of separations. Evidently not to these guys.

The next, and the biggest, was the lack of the logo anywhere on the page. That logo was a branded symbol encompassing the spirit of the (dis)organization. One part anarchist’s circled A, another part the chaotic randomness within the order of pi, a house with a swooping roof and arched doorway like the original when it was on Southmore street, simple enough to be drawn quickly with a paint can, encouraged to be done on as many occasions as would arise, yet flamboyant enough to be penciled with care and stenciled over with a sharpie there was never a set graphic style to the logo. It was made for everyone to use. It was trademarked and copyright free. But I still never saw it anywhere on their profile page.

So, I looked harder and realized from the photos and videos and comments posted that these were all the kids from the post founder days. These were the attendees that took it over after 2005 when it turned its focus to the hardcore scene. One friend that I do keep in touch with must have seen the “Tyson Moore likes Southmore House: the Rise and Fall” post on my page and went to check it out while I was still perusing for the logo. He seconded the comment Alex made about not focusing just on the music. Alex mentioned the poets. Doug Shields, an event coordinator at southmore, really jump started the slam scene in Houston at the space. Another guy brought up the theatrical production of “The High Elves Christmas Play” hinting at the other stage presentation offered in the pre mid decade years. Rob, the aforementioned friend, said he had the best birthday of his life there. He had pictures to prove it. Was that the night when Organ Failure from Super Happy Funland played Robot Parade and Muff of Amish Acid Dealer knocked over the cabinet? We could not get the smell of vinegar and mustard out of the floors no matter how much Terry, Wendell, and Guido tried. Yes, in case you were wondering, that is what that smell was. Armpits, ass, and vinegar. Maybe a little corn syrup dried up and leftover from the Halloween Blood Bath party. The good ole days.

These memories made me seek out pictures, videos, blogs, whatever would show up in the first couple of google pages. This was problematic. The version of the house that will be remembered by people who do not read will be the latter years when it ended. In 2000 when it started we were on the edge of social technology. Digital camera were astronomically expensive. You can imagine how much streaming web cams cost. You were lucky if your cell phone had color much less the ability to take images or, god forbid, video. Facebook had not even been invented yet. The documentary had 400 friends. I can only imagine how many friends the actual place would have had. For better or worse we touched many lives. If you go to the place our website used to be, southmorehouse.com, somebody bought it up and is selling painting on it.

My next favorite summary was from Loop Scoop in a nostalgic look back on Houston in honor of their 200th post. “#83: the southmorehouse for being whatever it wanted it to be.”

So, I ask you who find this to tell me in the comments about your favorite show at southmorehouse. Make it as long as you want. Put it on your blog and provide a link for us. If you were involved in any way, put a link to yourself. Tell us what you did. Tell us what you are doing. Post those rare pictures and video. Especially the pre 2005 days.

A California boy dreams about his best day ever, how much he loves Taco Bell, the beach, and getting high. Also a photo review of Thomas Hawk’s flickr stream.

“Mrs. Dickers wants the class to write a story about their best day ever. She said it could be real or not. She helped me to spell some words. She said I was a real good speller anyway. My last name is hard to spell because it reminds me of French Fries but it is spelled different. My first name is easy except everyone calls me Jeffey instead of Jeffrey. She helped me spell that too. She said it was okay to write Jeffey since I like it better. She said I should put a space here before I start my story.”

“Our artist on this piece, Thomas Hawk, might be considered that type, but to pigeonhole him into a single genre would be unfair. The sheer quantity of his online work immensely overstates any one kind. With close to 40,000 photos in his Flickr collection in just 6 years as a member he is only a fifth through his lifetime goal of a cool mill. His 30 grand explains this.”

Once a year Boulder throws a party that their cold stoic regulations cannot handle. It is sanctioned by the city. It is filled with travelers overtaking the town in tents, vans, backpacks, scarves, and wings. The Boulder Creek festival, held every year on Memorial Day weekend, is designed to officially ‘kick off summer.’ They open the dam in Nederland and let the water gush down the canal in near flash flood conditions. All along the banks are the white tented temporary establishments selling fair merchandise or information. The carnies come also with their rides and darts and stuffed animal prizes next to magnetic core milk bottles daring the passerby to knock them down with cabbage sized soft balls. Bands, solo musicians, dance troupes, drums, and quiet hawkers dominate the soundscape with the eternal hush of running water consistently in the background. The faeries play. You are allowed fun, but only in designated areas.

Fae folk care not for these silly human rules. They will bow to the event coordinators with badges dangling around their neck until backs are turned and they have found another crevice to mischievously grace. They excommunicated the hula hoopers from the front of the bandshell because of the highway pedestrian traffic that would allegedly course through their path. They wanted them to hide on the side near a Ryder truck, avoiding small children without the mindset to not walk near the spinning disc or twirling drunkards kicking up dust. They would move the drunkards if they could, but if the beer garden next door did not give these alcohol imbibed cause to dance then the simple fact that live music was playing does. Casually they tell her, “As soon as I no longer see you on your shift, I am coming back.” She, the festival assistant, did not like this. Her face creased into a stern furrow. You are allowed to have fun, but only in designated areas.

There are invisible and visible markings all over the ground. This fenced in yard is the place you may drink beer. This parking lot is where you do carnival things. This stadium is where you sit and watch music. This row of chairs and tables is where the teenagers hang out with their highschool battle of the bands judged by adults. This bleacher is where you watch dancers. Oh, the dancers. They twirled and whirled and stepped and leaped with modern, classical, ballet, and belly moves. I like the belly moves. The belly movers use scarves.

We sought more play in the section dispensing information on how to be more body, mind, soul, and eco conscious. Proudly, a friend brings his idea of the Bikeopolis to fruition with his own tent and flyers about the once thought as a pipe dream, Front Range Eco ranch. Around the corner is the designated fun area for hula hoops. You could hear the drums beating, but you could not see the performers. This will not do. We leave to dance in front of the ignored by the musicians stage. They have opted to stand on the level with the audience because they want the audience to make noise alongside their trash gamelan. They do. They hoot. They holler. They clap. They dance. There is much dancing today. There are lots of areas designated for that.

And then the rain came. Rain has the tendency to erode quickly those perimeters set by either man or nature. The creek rose another foot. The chalk lines of fun designation faded away as the majority of patrons ran for the community tents to keep dry. Those like myself, the beloved rainmakers, the winged tricksters, the spirit dancers, and family waited the warm dark skies for the cooling mist of droplets on our weary sun weary brow. This is when the change occurred. This is when they allowed me to walk with them for the day. They saw my appreciation of the weather sprites was genuine. She ran out to a sidewalk median between the grass and the drum stage parking lot. She was beautiful, frolicking in the pour, damning the denizens who sought refuge with her teasing motions, slipping on the wet, and laughing at herself, rolling in it only to fluidly arise to her feet once again for more play. She withstood the hail. That was my limit. I had seen it golf ball sized here before. I had felt it rebound onto my leg from the front door ajar and it had stung. I did not want to feel it on my scalp.

We hurried back to Bikeopolis, stopping along the way to introduce myself to Domino, the rainbow dancer. We had met before in another dimension with different faces, but we knew each other. She called the inner faerie inside of me by named association. She called me family. We dodged the discomfort of the sky water by running headlong through it, splashing in puddles the whole way. A new traveler would join our bus. She needed, however, to be blinded first. Sometimes it takes closing our eyes and letting our vision blur to truly see. I promised to bring her back a neodymium magnet to retrieve the screw of her spectacles.

Further along the course we were saturated with this new environment. The veil of the maya had been lifted. At our respective houses, Blake of Moab was with me, we changed from shorts into pants, he from shoes into boots, me into a jacket. Night was around the corner. It would get cold, maybe. It did, but I would never have a chance to be deterred by it. After the resupply we returned to the body, mind, and soul arena. It had spilled out from the roped in area to the streets. The town had been cleansed. A moment of sun refracted into double and triple rainbows on the balcony of a Himalayan cuisine balcony adequately named Sherpas. These monks had our baggage carefully stored for the climb to the top. They fed us Chicken Tika Massala, Chai Tea, and Vegetable Yak stew with Naan. We would need the roughage for the next leg of our journey. Little did I know that this chain of events would yield a crop of flamingo nunchuks. Whenever you see a rainbow, two faeries fall in love.

Some stereo music and liquid libations served directly to our seats on the couch later we remained unsure of our energy levels. I left the gathering to stoop on my gargoyle perch outside. It was too beautiful of a night to waste inside. The rest of the posse felt similarly. They joined the battle, unleashing a Super Smash Brothers style force with day glo hoops and those dastardly hot pink nunchuks. The beating was a massage that would continue throughout the nightly walk. Domino and her pan like friend brought us to gyrations outside, clanging street signs and newspaper vending machines with our sticks. The dead club would jump tonight. The DJ thought it was his own fault. Down the streets we sparred without bruising. We found the end and kept going. We looped the circle through the back alleys where topless dancers have an entrance to their stage. We united with more of the crew. We danced with fae. Blake has his own name for these creatures. He calls them Serendipity.

We stopped along the waterway to watch the falls careen off the ledge on our way home from the night. By this time golf cart security guards had reestablished their boundaries. They found us before we could play and explained that they were cool with us having fun, but it had to be in a designated area. This was not the place. We walked along the banks until we found one. Under the library on the other side, a Frisbee throwing celebration commenced. We hollered the Mardi Gras anthem at them from our vantage. “Throw me something, Mister.” They did. The first launch established my credibility as a dedicated servant of disc retrieval. It almost made it, but a post balked the completion. Down to the stream of heavy flow it fell. A moment of consideration was all that was necessary for my mind to track the trajectory of the current. It would be pushed to the side. I could get this. I stepped to it. It swept out missing my hand. I stepped again and then again. I was wet now. A little more wet would do me fine for the sake of this fun. I had not had a chance to throw it yet. Success. They cheered from the other side. They lauded my bravery with enthusiastic kudos. Back and forth the yellow saucer flew across the creek staying dry until the famous last words were spoke. “This is my last one.” It was. I missed. It went down. They did not have the shore to bring their feet to the edge. Their bank was high. The game was over.

a prose form short story essay about the relationship jaded society expressing love in the post modern world by tyson moore.

ALSO

a photo review of Ryan Davis, a vulgar sense of the sensitive making Hallmark cards for the disenfranchised, creator of the original image “I Heart You” manipulated for the header and featured below.

I am a member of the modern socially disaffected who has difficulty with traditional folkways that long ago lost their meaning. Among those that I question in the department of commitment are marriage, career, and saying “I Love You”. We no longer expect our marriages to last forever, which is obvious by our divorce rate. If we do, then we are as delusional as the burgeoning twenty something thinking they will keep the same job until they retire or the college graduate hoping for a future with a Philosophy degree. Recently, I have come into skepticism of my skepticism about saying “I Love You”.